‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not, if I’m second mate?’
He laughed then. ‘Of course. Why not. But why don’t you stay with the others? You don’t like to drink?
Or is it that you’re curious?’ He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something. ‘You don’t answer.’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve never been on a ship where the bridge was barred to the mates.’
‘Well, now you are on such a ship. Until we sail.’ He turned to Hals. ‘Didn’t you warn them?’
Hals shook his head. ‘I left that to Baldwick.’
‘But you are the captain and I told you…’ He stopped there and gave a little shrug. ‘It does not matter now. I have just been in the mess and I told them myself.’ He turned back to me. ‘There is a guard on the deck. He is an Arab, one of the Shihuh who inhabit this part. You could have been shot.’ He nodded curtly, a gesture that seemed to dismiss the subject for he was suddenly smiling, his expression transformed into one of friendliness. ‘I did not expect somebody on board to whom…” He hesitated. ‘I think perhaps I owe you my life.’
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ I said.
He shook his head, still with that friendly smile. ‘If not my life, then my good health. I remember you sat by my bed. You gave me courage to stand the pain and now I must consider how to repay you.’ He was frowning again as though faced with a sudden intractable problem, and he turned abruptly, walking quickly out through the office.
I waited till he was gone, then shut the door and faced Hals. ‘You know who he is?’ I asked.
‘Ja. He is the boss. He directs this expedition.’
‘But you don’t know his background?’
‘No. Only that he gives the orders. He has the money and the others do what he tells them.’
‘Are they Iranians, too?’
‘Ja, I think so.’
‘Terrorists?’
‘Per’aps.’
‘Do you know what his politics are?’
‘No. But when you meet him before, you talk with him then. You must know what he is.’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. And I told him the circumstances in which we had met. ‘All I know is what the Shah’s police said, that he was a terrorist. That means he was either a Communist or a supporter of the Ayatollah Khomeini.’
‘Don’t he tell you which, when you are sitting beside his bed in the sick bay on board your ship?’
‘I didn’t ask him. The man was in desperate pain. I wasn’t even sure he’d live till we reached Kuwait and got him to a doctor. You don’t cross-examine a man when he is close to death and slipping in and out of a coma.’
‘Okay, so you don’t know any more about him than I do.’ He gave a shrug, turning towards the door. ‘We go and feed now.’
‘There’s something else,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘This ship. You really mean you don’t know its name?’
‘Is that important?’
‘It’s the Aurora B,’ I said.
CHAPTER THREE
By the time Hals and I entered the officers’ messroom the big table at the after end had been laid and there was a steward in attendance dressed in white trousers and tunic. The chief engineer was back, sitting beside Rod Selkirk with a beer in front of him, but not talking now. Sadeq wasn’t there, nor was Bald-wick. The steward began sounding a gong as the captain went straight to his place at the head of the table. The others followed, and when we were all seated, the steward brought in plates piled with vegetables in a dark sauce. It was a Pakistani dish, the vegetables cold, the sauce curry-powder hot. ‘Jesus! We got ter put oop wi’ this rubbish!’ Fraser’s voice expressed the instinctive disgust of those unaccustomed to Eastern food.
I ate almost automatically, not talking, my mind still stunned by the knowledge that this was the Aurora B. Saltley wouldn’t believe it. Not that I had any means of contacting him, but if I had, I knew I’d find it difficult to convince him — not only that the tanker was still afloat, but that within a few days of our meeting I was actually dining on board the Aurora B. It didn’t seem possible. And opposite me, only one place further down the table, was the little Welshman who had sunk the Petros Jupiter and was now being employed… I glanced across at him, wondering — employed to do what?
A terrorist in charge of the voyage and an engineer who was an expert in sabotage! And what was I to do about it? Knowing what I did… I was still looking at the chief engineer as he turned his head. Our eyes met for an instant and it was as though some spark of telepathy passed between us. But then he had turned away, to the man on his left. It was Lebois and he was speaking to him in French.
He was like a chameleon, French one moment, Welsh the next, and his name was Price. Even Baldwick called him that, though he knew damn well his name had been Choffel for years now. ‘Price!’ he called as he came in with some letters in his hand. Presumably they had come up with us from Dubai in the dhow. ‘A letter for you,’ he said and handed it to him.
The curried vegetables were followed by a steak and some ugly-looking potatoes. The steak was deep frozen and tough, and for those who refused to face up to the potatoes there was sliced white bread that was already staling in the heat. The only thing that seemed to have maintained its freshness was the array of bottled sauces in the centre of the table. I hoped the dhow had loaded some provisions in Dubai, something more interesting than those shipped at Ras al Khaimah, otherwise I could see tempers getting very frayed. Varsac pushed his plate away, Lebois too. Clearly the French were not going to take to Pakistani cooking.
Somebody — Hals, I think — wondered jokingly how long scurvy took to develop. We were discussing this, and the length of time hunger-strikers had taken to die of starvation, when I was suddenly conscious of the Welshman staring at me, his steak untouched, the letter open in front of him and a small white square of pasteboard in his hand. It was a photograph. He glanced down at it quickly, then looked across at me again, his eyes wide, the shock of recognition dawning. I knew then that the letter must be from his daughter and the photograph in his hand one of those she had taken in Nantes as I was leaving for the airport. His mouth opened as though to say something, and in that moment he seemed to disintegrate, a nerve twitching at his face, his hand trembling so violently the photograph fell into his plate.
With a visible effort, he pulled himself together, but his face looked very white as he grabbed up the photo, still staring at me with an expression almost of horror, his hands fluttering as he tried to fold the letter and put it in his pocket. Then he got suddenly to his feet, muttering ‘Excuse me’ as he hurried out of the room.
‘Malade?’ Lebois asked. Varsac muttered something in reply, reaching across and scooping up the meat from the abandoned plate. A hand fell on my shoulder. I looked up to find Baldwick standing over me. ‘Come outside a moment.’ I followed him to the door. ‘What did you say to him?’ he demanded, his little eyes popping with anger.
‘Nothing. It was the letter.’
‘Well, leave him alone. Understand? He’s chief engineer and they need him.’ He leaned down, his heavy-jowled face close to mine. ‘You can’t blame him for wot your wife done to herself. That wot you had in mind?’ And when I didn’t say anything, he went on, speaking slowly as though to a child, ‘Well, if it is, cut it out, d’you understand — or you’ll get hurt.’ And he added, still leaning over me, his face so close I could smell the whisky on his breath, ‘This isn’t any sort of a kindergarten outfit. You just remember that. Price is nothing to do with you.’